Poet David W. McFadden reads from What's the Score?

for what's the score by David W McFadden in her citation for what's the score Griffin poetry prize judge Suzanne buffum smiles as she writes if the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise advised William Blake in his proverbs of Hell as if whispering through the ages into the ear of Canada's deadpan court jester Blake's radical spirits lolly presides over David mcfaddens exuberant 35th publication what's the score with their arch yet affable tone these 99 irreverent and mock earnest poems lay siege to the feelings of bodom anxiety and alienation that afflict a culture obsessed with wealth and prestige beating us again and again down the road of excess to the palace of wisdom my poems go leaping from crag to crag mcfadden boasts in one poem before quickly and characteristically scuttling this romantic image of the egotistical sublime like a stubble faced crybaby it's probably because I've been writing for so long 40 years of poems to various friends the easy casual intimacy of these poems will befriend you on the first page their astonishing leaps and they're genuine philosophical urgency will compel you to keep reading stick around invites this artful in knowing wise fool everyone should have a chorus following his steps and reminding him of his central role in some great dream there's no aces in my deck there's no biscuits in my bowl there's no conquest adore on my continent there's no dragon in my den there's no ease in my delivery there's no fizz in my Fandango there's no gate in my fence there's no housewife in my oval and furthermore there's no heaven in my vocabulary there's no ice cream in my freezer there's no juice in my red-hot blender there's no ketchup on my french fries there's no limousine waiting for me there's no yes there was just today I forgot free company hmm where am I now there's no limousine waiting for me there's no mustard on my hot dog and I also just noticed that there's no monkey in my tree there's nothing nice about my knobby knee there's no over in my underwear there's seldom any prisoner in my cell there's very little quiet in my quintessence there's no rhododendrons in my rock garden there's no stallion in any of my stables there's no telkom powder on my tray there's no umbrella in my understanding there's no violin in my orchestra there's no water not even in my bathtub there's no xylophone under my christmas tree xmas tree you might say there's no yarmulke on my in my youth and i just like to say there's hardly any zipper in my zen you

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